


I Know Your Name

by ellispark



Series: A Working Relationship [1]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe - Spies & Secret Agents, Arranged Marriage, Extended sounds of brutal pipe murder, Fake Identities, M/M, Murder Husbands, Past Rape/Non-con, deep undercover, the author has been watching The Americans too much
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-23
Updated: 2019-06-23
Packaged: 2020-05-16 15:57:31
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,972
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19321396
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ellispark/pseuds/ellispark
Summary: After spending fifteen years married to a virtual stranger, one botched mission teaches Dean and Cas how to truly trust each other.





	I Know Your Name

 There’s a body in the garage.

 

Dean scrubs violently at the crusted plates in the sink, watching bits of Jack’s half-eaten French toast flake away and wash down the disposal, and he makes a mental list of everything he has to do once the kids are at school:

           

  1. Fix the dishwasher so he can stop cleaning dirty plates by hand.
  2. Buy more groceries – thanks to Jack’s voracious teenage appetite, they’re now out of everything non-green in the pantry.
  3. Call Charlie and let her know they won’t be making it into work today.
  4. Take care of said body in the garage.
  5. Work up an excuse for said body that doesn’t get them all killed.



 

He stacks the still-wet dish in the rack next to the others, listening as the front door slams and Jack and Claire take off down the sidewalk, chattering inanely as they walk toward the bus stop. Dean turns off the sink. He waits for their voices to fade to nothing, then he turns toward the garage door.

 

There’s a body in there, head lolling lifeless against his toolbox and tires, blood pooling on his concrete floor. Dean clenches his fists. This day is already a cluster fuck, and it’s only 7:30 a.m.

 

He walks to the garage door, but instead of opening it, he raps at the door of the bathroom across the hall.

 

“Steve — Cas.” Dean corrects himself a beat too late. “Kids are gone. Get your ass out here.”

 

The door opens slowly to reveal his husband, white button-down splattered with blood that’s also found its way up into his messy dark hair, an expression inexplicably caught between sheepish and defiant on his handsome face. Dean is caught too, somewhere between wanting to kiss Cas and wanting to strangle him.

 

“What are we going to do?” he asks, because yeah, Cas killed the man whose body is currently slumped next to their car, but Dean let him. He could have stepped in, could have stopped it. He didn’t want to. This is a _we_ problem – more of _we_ problem than any other problem they’ve had in their fifteen years of marriage, considering Cas just murdered a man for Dean and then they told each other their real names for the first time.

 

Dean never thought Steve Allen was a good cover name for the man he married. Steve sounds boring, staid, white bread. Cas – Cas is dangerous, cunning, intelligent, and currently covered in viscera that needs to be cleaned before it constitutes a legitimate biohazard.

 

“We’re going to dump the body,” Cas says simply, as if it’s that easy. It’s never that easy.

 

“Take that off,” Dean says, jerking his hand toward Cas’s stained shirt. “Just — get in the shower. You can’t go out looking like that.”

 

Cas huffs, irritated, but he turns away and begins to disrobe, letting his blood soaked clothes fall to the bathroom tiles. Dean watches, itching to pick up after him and distracted at the same time by the play of Cas’s muscles as he pulls off his button-down, tugs at his belt. His knuckles have blood in the creases, and Dean loves his hands. He loves a lot of things about Cas, actually, but never imagined those feelings were returned until about three hours ago.

 

Once Cas is naked, he turns on the shower spray, holding his hand under as it warms up. Dean is rooted to the doorway, watching him. He feels distinctly like he’s waiting for something, standing on the edge of a cliff, about to take a dive. He remembers feeling like this before, all those years ago, when he walked into a plain white room and met the man he’d been assigned to spend the rest of his life with. Dean was excited, then — young, naïve. He fell face first and hit the ground, hard. He’s not taking the first leap this time around.

 

But he doesn’t have to — Cas turns to him, eyes even more vibrant thanks to the splashes of red across his cheeks, and says, “Are you getting in with me?” He sounds hesitant, not like the Steve Allen Dean’s known for so long. He sounds like the man he revealed himself to be last night — possessive, protective, maybe a little insecure. He sounds like a man named Cas. A man Dean would really like to get to know.

 

Dean takes a steadying breath, reaches down to pull his shirt off, then strips out of his jeans and his boxers. Cas holds his hand out, and he takes it. Dean takes the plunge.

 

 

 

**NINE HOURS EARLIER – 10:30 P.M.**

 

The kids are asleep when the package arrives.

 

“Steve,” says the voice over the phone, and Castiel resists the urge to groan into his pillow. He’s always hated Naomi’s voice, especially at any hour when the sun is down. “Delivery’s been bumped up. Pick-up is at 12:15, same place. Drop off is 6 a.m. tomorrow.” She hangs up.

 

Cas rolls over to wake his husband, but Michael is already up, staring at some point on the wall across the room.

 

“You okay?” Cas asks, and Michael blinks.

 

“Peachy.” His grin is too wide. For such an excellent spy, he’s a fucking terrible liar. “Package ready?”

 

“Indeed.”

 

“It’s two days early.”

 

“I doubt Naomi cares.”

 

“Right.” Michael stretches, and Cas glances away. He’s always been uncomfortable with how attracted he is to Michael, considering Michael never chose to be married to him in the first place, and so he’s spent the past fifteen years hiding that attraction under layers of gruff indifference and a laser-focus on their work. “The kids?”

 

“They should still be asleep by the time it’s all said and done. Drop-off is at 6.”

 

Michael huffs as he stands and pulls on his jeans, scanning the closet for the right inconspicuous jacket to wear to kidnap a man off the city streets. “I’ll be glad when this is over.”

 

Cas doesn’t comment. Michael’s been uneasy since Naomi gave them this assignment — to grab Walter Alastair, one of their former operatives turned traitor, and put him on the next boat to the motherland, where he’ll stand trial. Michael trained at the operative center run by Alastair, so Cas can only imagine his conflicted feelings on sending the man off to certain death, even if they never worked together directly. No matter how much he resents Naomi, Cas would find it difficult indeed to see her as a target should she ever switch sides. He wants to ask Michael how he’s feeling, but that’s not something they do.

 

They dress quickly, quietly, in dark but casual clothes. It’s not so odd, for two men to be out this late at night in this city. No one will pay them any mind, especially since they’re splitting up.

 

Alastair was supposed to be leaving secure custody on Thursday. It’s Tuesday. But his route will be the same. Cas and Michael memorized it when Naomi sent them the assignment last week. During negotiations, Alastair stayed under the watchful eye of the Lawrence government at Hotel Cicero. His new lodgings are on 7th Street. There’s only one viable route between the hotel and 7th, thanks to a well-timed accident Naomi assured them Gabriel was already in the process of creating. Cas will wait on 6th, ready to nab Alastair in the darkest part of the seedy street. Michael will wait in the getaway car, ready to speed off the second Cas and the subdued subject get in.

 

The men are silent as they pass the children’s rooms. Cas doesn’t like to leave them alone at night, but Michael is even worse than he is — double, then triple checking the locks and the state-of-the-art alarm system. He presses in their lock code for a fourth time, and Cas grabs his arm.

 

“Steve,” Michael protests, and Cas tries not to think about how the name grates, even after all these years. It’s his name now and for the rest of his life.

 

“They’ll be fine.” If one thing unites them, far more than mission or country, it’s their children — their children who don’t know their parents’ real occupation or nationality or names. “You’ve done all you can.”

 

Michael grunts and shakes his arm away from Cas’s grasp. He can already tell this is going to be a long night, just by the tension in his husband’s shoulders. Cas sighs, following Michael to the car. He did mean what he said — the kids will be fine, and they’ll be back before they wake.

 

Everything should go according to plan.

 

 

 

**SIX HOURS EARLIER — 1:30 A.M.**

Everything did not go according to plan.

 

Dean is white-knuckling the wheel, keeping his eyes between the speedometer and the road. He can’t go over the speed limit. They can’t get stopped. There’s one man bleeding out in their backseat, another cackling madly and pounding at the roof of the trunk. Dean can hear Alastair’s high-pitched cackle over the purr of the engine every time they slow at stoplights.

 

“Keep going,” Steve says to Dean, voice low. He has Gabriel’s head cradled against his shoulder, and he slams his fist against the backseat. “You shut up!”

 

“We can’t stop at a hospital with him like that.” It is taking all of Dean’s training to keep his calm. This is a nightmare. “They’ll wanna know what happened, and with Alastair yelling in the trunk...”

 

“He can walk.” Steve is abrupt, pitiless. “We’ll let Gabe out at the corner of 10th and Redwood. It’s close enough from there.”

 

Gabe takes in a shaky, watery breath as Dean says, “Are you fucking kidding me?”

 

“What else are we supposed to do, Michael?” Steve rarely loses his cool, but he’s losing it now. “Waltz up to the ER and get outed as foreign spies by the psychopath in our trunk?”

 

Dean glances in the rearview mirror. Gabe is getting paler by the second, and the spot of damp, dark red on his light blue shirt is growing larger. He’s not going to make it. They both know that, but Dean can’t imagine leaving him on a street corner to die.

 

“Michael!”

 

10th and Redwood is coming up.

 

It wasn’t supposed to be like this. Gabe’s diversion worked perfectly, shutting down the other route right where they needed it. Gabe met Steve on time, and when Alastair rounded the corner on 6th, Dean watched from down the street as his husband and his friend jumped him. Neither of them saw the knife until Alastair slashed it down Gabe’s stomach.

 

Dean didn’t see Alastair stab Gabe, but he saw the aftermath. He watched Gabe stumble backwards in pain and shock, clutching at split and shredded skin, holding in his guts with his hands as blood soaked through his shirt. He watched, heart in his throat, as Alastair swung the knife wildly at Steve’s throat, watched Steve duck and bring up a perfectly timed punch to the gut, then a perfectly aimed kick to the groin. Alastair went down, and Dean watched. That was his assignment, this time around — to be the lookout. To watch his tormentor stab his friend and almost slash his husband’s throat.

 

So Dean watched as Steve beat Alastair to a pulp in the middle of the road. Anyone could have heard. Anyone could have seen. They’re in trouble. They are quite possibly compromised.

 

Dean meets Steve’s eyes in the mirror. His face is blank. It’s his mission face, but worse, even more detached than usual — it’s the face of a man who failed.

 

“Michael, you have to stop here.”

 

Dean does. Gabe can’t even summon the strength to push the door open, so Steve does it for him. He stumbles out of the car, almost hitting the pavement, but he manages to right himself and start toward the hospital, one bloody hand fumbling along the brick wall next to him.

 

“We have to go.”

 

Alastair is laughing like a madman. Steve is watching Gabriel as if he’s seeing nothing. Dean swallows and presses his foot to the gas pedal.

 

 

 

**FIVE HOURS EARLIER — 2:30 A.M.**

Gabriel was supposed to make the drop-off. With everything that happened, Cas didn’t even think to ask him where the holding point was meant to be. They have no choice now but to take Alastair, a traitor and a killer, into their home.

 

Michael hasn’t spoken since Cas let Gabriel out of the car, and he’s silent still as they park the car in the garage. Cas is not one to push him — that’s not the way their marriage works, because it’s not a real marriage — but he can’t help but say, “I’m sorry.”

 

“Gag him,” is all Michael says, “and you can watch him. I don’t want him anywhere near the kids.”

 

The venom in Michael’s voice directed at his old boss would be odd if it weren’t for the fact that the man likely killed their closest ally tonight. Cas nods in acquiesce, and Michael leaves the garage without looking back.

 

Cas is quick when he opens the trunk, delivering a sharp blow to Alastair’s face before the man can cry out again, then stuffing a grease-covered rag into his mouth. Alastair tries to bite him, and Cas punches him again. The thin, wiry man falls back into the trunk, his sharp cheekbones mottled with bruises and blood. That he’s still conscious enough to glare at Cas after the beating he’s taken tonight is a testament to his stamina. Cas slaps duck tape across his mouth in retribution.

 

“You’ll shut the fuck up,” Cas seethes, “or I’ll kill you nice and slow.” And he slams the trunk door shut.

 

His next move is stupid, and he knows it. Cas digs in the toolbox until he finds one of his unused burner phones. He puts in the number for Redwood Memorial.

 

Cas knows what his husband thinks of him — that he’s cold, calculating. That he doesn’t care about Gabe, or Michael, or anything other than the good of the homeland they left behind so many years ago. Sure, Michael knows Cas’s affection for their children is genuine, but Cas has seen the wary looks Michael throws his way when Cas disciplines them. His husband worries Cas’s love for them is conditional, as his friendship with Gabe is. Was. Cas can see it in his eyes — Michael believes they are all tools to him, discarded when necessary. Even himself, even Jack and Claire.

 

But Michael is wrong.

 

Cas clutches the edge of the toolbox as the phone rings. A night nurse picks up quickly, voice pleasant as she says, “Redwood Memorial Hospital, how may I help you?”

 

“Hello,” Cas says, and though internally he feels something like panic clawing at his throat, his training keeps his voice calm and steady. He adopts an affected Southern accent. “My name is Christopher Dawes; I’m a deputy with the Brooks County Sheriff’s Department. I’m calling regarding a possible kidnapping suspect who may have found his way into your care tonight — a man about feet-foot-eight, five-foot-nine, light brown hair with a full beard? The victim said he’d managed to slash him across the chest and stomach with a pocketknife before he ran away.”

 

“Oh,” the nurse says, sounding suitably scandalized in one syllable. “Hold on for a moment, please, Deputy.”

 

“Alright,” Cas says affably, but she’s gone. He listens to the hold music, an uninspired piano piece, and watches the trunk of the car with murder in his eyes.

 

The nurse returns with a, “Deputy?”

 

“Yes.”

 

“We did have a man matching that description brought to the ER tonight, but he was DOA. He bled out from his wounds.”

 

Cas takes a deep breath. “Well. That is unfortunate.”

 

“I’m sorry we couldn’t be of more help.”

 

“No, thank you, you’ve done quite enough.” He hangs up. Cas stares at the burner phone in his hand for a moment, then hurls it at the wall.

 

 

 

**THREE HOURS EARLIER — 4:30 A.M.**

Dean can’t sleep. The waking nightmares wrap around him, insistent and insidious.

 

_I know you like it. So stop fighting it._

There’s a burning sensation in his knuckles, crawling up his arms. He needs to let it out. He stares at the ceiling.

 

_Don’t be such a little bitch, Winchester._

 

He shoves the blankets off.

 

Steve is sitting silently on the toolbox when Dean enters the garage, and he only looks up when he hears the sound of the door closing.

 

“Michael?”

 

“Is he still in the trunk?”

 

Steve nods. His eyes are red, lined underneath with a bluish-blackish tint that highlights his stress and sleepless night. Dean might feel concerned if that concern weren’t shoved aside by overpowering rage.

 

“You can sleep now. I’m going to take over.”

 

“I’m not so sure—” Steve begins, and Dean interrupts, “I’ve got it. Sleep.”

 

He ignores the way Steve’s eyes linger on his face and his clenched fists before he nods, hopping off the toolbox and walking on near silent feet into the darkness of the house.

 

Dean waits until he’s sure his husband is gone, tucked safely in their bed in the room just down the hall from the kids’. Then he opens the trunk.

 

He didn’t get a good look at Alastair when Steve first shoved him into the car. Now, as Alastair blinks his eyes to adjust to the change in light, Dean takes him in. He looks much the same as he did nearly twenty years ago — but thinner, older. His eyes when they look on Dean’s are that same, disturbing gray. He works his mouth around the rag Steve stuffed in it, but the tape placed over it holds it in place. Dean stares at the man who whispered the words haunting his sleep, and he rips the tape off without preamble, taking pleasure in Alastair’s flinch. Alastair spits the dirty rag out with a grimace, and Dean steps back.

 

“You couldn’t be a bit more hospitable?” Alastair asks, with the faint accent Dean and Steve lost long ago. He holds out his tied hands, as if asking Dean to set him free.

 

“No,” Dean says flatly. “I only came down here to ask you one thing.”

 

Alastair rolls his eyes and twists his neck from side to side. It pops loudly in the quiet room. “And that is?”

 

Dean glares at the man who held him down in an empty gymnasium, the man who sparred with a rookie like he was helping him, teaching him, then brutally violated him and said, _this is all part of your training, Winchester. Take it like a man._ He stares at the face of the devil and asks, “Do you remember me?”

 

Alastair seems genuinely confused by the question, eyebrows bunching together as he considers Dean’s face. It doesn’t surprise Dean he doesn’t remember. He was likely one of many who saw the monster underneath the smiling façade.

 

“Shurley Training Center, 2000. I was younger then. I’d joined the new class a week before, and they hadn’t made me cut my hair yet.” Dean smiles, bitter and strained, and lets his memories of the homeland color his voice, changing his perfect Lawrenian accent to match Alastair’s, something more stilted and guttural. “I hadn’t mastered the language yet, either. Or my fighting skills. You took advantage of that.”

 

Then Alastair smiles, his teeth yellow and cracked from Steve’s punches, his opening mouth a yawning abyss Dean refuses to look into.

 

“I don’t know you,” he says, and it’s clear it’s a lie meant to poke at the rage and horror kindling in Dean’s veins. A lie meant to ignite. “Perhaps there’s a way you could remind me?” And then he has the audacity to look at Dean’s lips and lick his own.

 

That is all it takes for Dean to explode. He hauls the bound man out of the trunk and uses the momentum to throw him into the garage door. Alastair hits it hard, rattling it with a screech. Dean hears footsteps coming hard and fast from the kitchen, but he doesn’t fully register Steve bursting into the room. His vision clouds at the edges, focused in on the half-bent, cackling form in front of him. Alastair lunges at him, and Dean lifts a knee to hit him in the groin.

 

“What the fuck?” Steve demands. He doesn’t stop, yanking Alastair up by his hair and throwing a punch that lands square in the center of his gut. The bastard is still laughing, breathless and pained and somehow convinced he’s winning, even when Steve wrestles him away from Dean and pins him up against the wall with a forearm to the chest. “We’re supposed to keep him safe until he’s in custody, Michael!”

 

“Michael,” Alastair says around his broken teeth. “What a strong name. Doesn’t fit you, though. Does it, Dean?”

 

Dean watches Steve’s eyes, wild and unfocused from the adrenaline of barging in on a fight, narrow with understanding. He knows my name, Dean thinks, absurdly.

 

“I do remember now,” Alastair continues, and only Steve between them keeps Dean from lunging at him again. “You put up a hell of a fight then, too. I like that. Makes it exciting.”

 

Dean’s fists clench at his sides as Steve says, “What is that supposed to mean?” There’s an edge to his voice Dean doesn’t recognize. He can’t speak himself, his chest heaving. He wants to screw the job, screw the mission and wrap his hands around Alastair’s throat, squeeze until that twisted smile shatters.

 

“Dean and I were close,” Alastair says in a mock whisper to Steve. “Like in the biblical sense.”

 

Steve looks at Dean, and whatever he sees in Dean’s face causes him to shift his forearm from Alastair’s chest to his throat, his eyes taking on that blank quality Dean’s seen before, when Steve is about to pull the trigger on a loaded gun.

 

“Is that true?” Steve asks Dean, and there’s a crack in his calm, a barely controlled rage. Dean can hardly nod.

 

Alastair, ignorant of the danger he’s in, smiles again when Steve lets him go. He doesn’t make a move to run, confident he’s just created a fissure in the partnership of the men in front of him. He takes Steve for a fool and murder for jealousy.

 

“Michael — Dean.” It’s the first time Steve has ever said his name, and he says it low and reassuring, where Alastair can’t hear. “Maybe you should leave.”

 

Dean shakes his head. His adrenaline is gone, the fire burnt out, leaving him hollow. He’s rooted to the spot. He thinks maybe if he could move all he would be able to do would be double over and vomit. Steve watches him, a frown on his face, and nods.

 

He grabs the tire iron so quickly Dean almost misses it. Alastair certainly does, until the split second before it connects with his skull. A genuine mask of fear comes over his face before Steve caves it in.

 

Bones make a cracking, splitting sound when they break. Dean knows this. He’s broken many — his own and others’. He’s taken lives before, felt the splintering of the structures that hold a human body together, watched the flesh rupture and blood flow. He’s never heard a more satisfying sound than the grunts of pain Alastair lets out before he falls silent, never been happier to hear the crack of bone turn into the sound of mush as Steve bashes Alastair’s head in, pounding it like so much meat until it’s unrecognizable.

 

When he finally steps away from the lump of flesh that was Walter Alastair, chest heaving, it’s like Dean’s feet come unglued from the floor. He rushes forward, catching Steve’s arm as he sways, exhilaration of the kill giving way to exhaustion.

 

They look into each other’s eyes, the blue in Steve’s highlighted by the blood spattered across his cheeks and forehead. Dean doesn’t think, reaching around to grab the back of his neck, matted in sweat and blood, and pulls him in for a hard, pressing kiss. It’s brief, harsh, full of unspent adrenaline. When they pull apart, Steve’s eyes are soft as they linger on Dean’s face, held inches from his own.

 

“Cas,” he says, panting. “My real name is Cas.”

 

 

**NOW**

Of course the noise woke the kids, and of course Dean and Cas had to put out that fire before they could tend to the larger one burning between them, or the even yet larger one sitting lifeless in the garage.

 

Claire is 15 now, and considers herself to be quite the adult, so when she heard the scuffling downstairs she immediately woke Jack, the 13-year-old, and together they ventured off to find Cas and Dean. Luckily Dean intercepted them in the kitchen and managed to get them to settle for watching TV instead of asking questions.

 

“Where’s Dad?” Claire had asked, almost as an afterthought, at about 6:30.

 

“Emergency in the office. He’s helping Charlie with something,” Dean said, eyeing the door of the bathroom where Cas was camped out.

 

“I didn’t know travel agents had emergencies,” Claire said, but luckily left it at that. Dean shooed them outside promptly at 7:30, relieved in more ways than one that his children are not so observant as their fathers.

 

He’s still distracted thinking about them, worrying about them, even when Cas — and that will take getting used to, _Cas_ , but it works — pulls him into the hall shower. It’s a tight fit, but that simply presses them closer together, skin on skin.

 

“They’ll be okay,” Cas whispers, as if he can hear Dean’s anxious thoughts. “So will you. So will we.”

 

Maybe his husband does know him after all.

 

Dean takes the washcloth from Cas’s hand and soaps it up, then carefully starts to rub down Cas’s arms in a soothing, circular motion. Alastair’s blood drips red down the drain as Dean moves to Cas’s face, gentle as he cups his husband’s chin. Cas closes his eyes, and his lips tremble. Once all the blood is gone, Dean kisses him — softly, like a benediction. _Your sins are forgiven._

 

“I should have let you kill him,” Cas says against Dean’s lips. “I’m sorry; it wasn’t my decision to make—”

 

“Stop, okay?” Dean tosses the washcloth behind him. Cas opens his eyes. “I’m — I’m just glad he’s gone. I was angry at first, but that’s more worrying about what Naomi will do... But that — That was honestly the greatest thing anyone’s ever done for me.”

 

“Dean.” Cas touches his face in turn, and Dean sees all the questions he doesn’t ask — _when did it happen; did anyone ever know; is this why you didn’t want me to touch you, back when they first forced us together_ — but he swallows them down. Dean’s grateful, but the feeling pales in comparison to the joy he feels hearing his own name from the lips of the man he’s loved at arms’ length for years.

 

“Cas,” he says in return, and their lips meet again and again and again, losing themselves in the moment — something new and fragile, softer than the rest of their bloody lives and more important than the country they swore to protect, which now seems a million miles and a lifetime away. There will be hell to pay for what they’ve done tonight, and Dean’s mind wants to turn to worry again — worry for Jack and Claire and Cas and their lives here — but Cas kisses him so well he forgets for a moment he hasn’t felt like a real person in over a decade.

 

This is real.

 

There’s a hesitation in Cas as he pulls away and turns the shower off, a silent question he doesn’t want to ask, but Dean grabs his hand this time and pulls him out of the shower. They towel off quickly, ignoring the closed garage door as they walk naked through the house, hands held tight.

 

Dean knows Cas won’t throw him on the bed, so he does it to himself, landing on his back sprawled against the sheets. Cas crawls over him, eyes and mouth hungry as he looks, then tastes, kissing and licking his way up Dean’s legs and thighs. Dean throws his head back as his husband’s lips seal around his cock. God, they haven’t done this in years — Dean’s forgotten why they stopped, and he has no higher thought capability to think on the why right now. Cas is a skilled lover, always has been, and as he works his lips and tongue around Dean, Dean loses himself to the sensation. He forgets about Naomi and Alastair and lies. He just feels — feels the heat of Cas’s mouth, the softness of his wet hair, the strength of his affection — and he feels satisfied. He lets go for perhaps the first time in his hunted, haunted life.

 

Cas swallows every drop Dean gives him before slowly making his way up the rest of Dean’s body, ignoring the way it shakes from the aftershocks under him as he kisses Dean’s stomach, chest and neck. Dean reaches for him, but Cas pushes his hand away, holding it up above his head. Dean lets him. He realizes, perhaps for the first time, that he trusts Cas — they trust each other — beyond the scope of what their mission entails. Cas knows his name. He knows Cas’s.

 

“I know your name,” Dean says aloud, awed. He wants to know more, wants to know everything, but that thought drifts away when he feels Cas’s dick settle against his hip. Cas smiles against Dean’s neck as he begins to move his body against Dean’s in a slow grind.

 

“And I,” he says, shuddering, gasping, “know yours.”

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> Apparently the solution to my long period of writer’s block was to knock this out in a day. Hope you enjoy.
> 
> (A million bonus points to anyone who gets the reference in the tags.)


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